When his parents asked about me, he told them that I knew he had survived and that we had parted ways.
He said it was easier than admitting what he had done.
“You let everyone believe I knew,” I whispered.
He nodded.
“I was ashamed.”
“Were you ashamed when you married Margaret?”
He looked down.
“Yes.”
“Were you ashamed when your children were born?”
“Yes.”
“Were you ashamed when you watched them grow up, when they graduated, when they got married, when they gave you grandchildren?”
He began to cry harder.
“Yes, Elizabeth.”
I stared at him.
“Then why did you keep going?”
His answer came so quietly that I almost missed it.
“Because every year, I told myself that the next year would be the year I found the courage to tell you. And every year, I became more afraid of what you would think of me.”
I sat down.
